The yet ever present, a continual rhythm. Already 



Awakener ^ a ^ rhythm is become a cadence : the birds 

 Woods chant the strophes, flower and blossom and 

 green leaf yield their subtler antiphones, the 

 ancient yet ever young protagonist is the 

 heart of man. Soon the cadence will be a 

 song, a paean. The hour of the rose and the 

 honeysuckle will come, the hour of the swallow 

 hawking the grey gnat above the lilied stream, 

 the hour when the voice of the cuckoo floats 

 through ancient woods rejoicing in their green 

 youth, that voice which has in it the magic of 

 all springs, the eternal cry of the renewal of 

 delight. 



True, one may as yet more universally see 

 the feet of Spring, or the blossom-touch of 

 her hands, in the meadows and by the shores, 

 than in the woods. She passes by the hedge- 

 rows or along the pastures, and her trail has 

 the sheen of gold. Do not the celandine and 

 the flaming dandelion, the pale cowslip and 

 delicate crowsfoot, the jonquil and daffodil, 

 the yellow of the broom and the bee-loved 

 gorse, everywhere show it ? She goes by the 

 upland meadows, and touches the boughs of 

 the wild-apple or leaning pear, stoops by the 

 quince or the wild-cherry, and the white foam 

 of the miraculous wind that is in the hollow 

 of her hand is left upon the branches. The 



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